This story starts at the start Altus de Wet warming his arms preparing to do battle against a formidable field, including top national riders. Wished him luck and commented that I was not feeling like this race (have done one or two before). His comment was to have fun and one will be more relaxed and most probably even do better. This became my strategy, and work it did. Took it easy with my only ambition getting back to the finish. No pressure, though still had more than my share of entertainment but was satisfied and happy when I loaded my bike again.

Creighton is a small village one reaches some time after taking the Howick off-ramp off the N3. Most spectacular riding (some do call it Cotch valley) and a privilege to cross several private properties. The track was at a very high standard, well marked with several ‘interesting’ sections. Was told they had taken out some of the more technical bits (too wet), thank goodness. It rode well with minimal bottlenecks and no real ‘how the … I am ever going to get up that’ sections.

The weather was cold but being in Africa, the sun was shining. Railway lines made their appearance at the start. A reminder of the impact railways have had on rural landscapes and the existence of these little places.

The drama for the day – to ride up a river on large flat rocks which were incredibly slippery. My race almost ended but was saved by willing spectators and marshals – cannot thank them enough. Without momentum, one goes nowhere. Did create chaos and apologies to those stuck behind me – was not shouted at, too badly. Fate would have it that I was stuck each time Jade came screaming past me. He found alternate lines (many apologies as well). As we headed away from the stream the track snaked deviously back. So demoralising to be faced again by slippery rocks. Survival mode kicked in and with each section one became bolder. Ultimately, one reaches the end of ones talent and down you go. It was hell or was that Hell’s Gate.

And that was not all. Actually, cannot remember what was next, it was hard anyway. Lots of rocks, something called Carl’s Diner. On one mad climb, two riders considered it extreme enough to pull out towropes to pull each other up with. I made smoke wearing my tyre out and lots of noise but achieving little else.

At the bottom of a huge climb, a rider who was repairing his clutch, advised to give it gas. All worked great until my bike started behaving like a missile heading skywards. Time for a little zigzagging and slowly clawed my way to the top.

Do I need to add, for every uphill we had an equally insane downhill. Some of these were cliffs, you know, vertically down like Angus’s Hill – he did not make it intact on an occasion. On some of the lesser ones I took the option of walking my bike down! Disney World, eat you heart out, you have nothing on this.

Credit has to be give for some appreciated forest tracks and a moment, a brief gap, to recover and compose oneself and tone down ones screaming and harmonise again with ones two-stroke.

Thank you, thank you and thank you again. This is what any race should be like. What a wonderful track and am really looking forward to your next race, well almost.